When I went to see John M. Daniel, thus, in this summer of 1864, it was
not a mere journalist whom I visited, but a historic character. For it
was given to him, invisible behind the scenes, to shape, in no small
degree, the destiny of the country, by moulding the views and opinions
of the actors who contended on the public arena.
Was that influence for good or for evil? Let others answer. To-day this
man is dead, and the cause for which he fought with his pen has failed.
I reproduce his figure and some scenes of that great cause--make your
own comments, reader.
V.
THE EDITOR IN HIS SANCTUM.
Knocking at the door of the journalist's house on Broad Street, nearly
opposite the "African church," I was admitted by a negro servant, sent
up my name, and was invited by Mr. Daniel to ascend to his sanctum on
the second story.
I went up, and found him leaning back in a high chair of black
horsehair, in an apartment commanding a view southward of James River
and Chesterfield. On a table beside him were books and papers--the
furniture of the room was plain and simple.
He greeted me with great cordiality, bowing very courteously, and
offering me a cigar. I had not seen him since his return from Europe,
and looked at him with some curiosity. He was as sallow as before--his
eyes as black and sparkling; but his long, black hair, as straight as
an Indian's, and worn behind his ears, when I first knew him, was
close-cut now; and his upper lip was covered by a black mustache.
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